“Spit it out, babes.”
Time for Carol to admit that she hadn’t come to watch the croquet. “I heard you had a big row with Desmond. What was that about?”
“Suspect, am I?”
“They’re all after me. If I don’t find the killer, I’ll be back in Bronzefield by the end of the week.”
“Wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Women’s prison always looked like fun to me. All netball and knitting. You wanna try Wandsworth.”
“I’m done with it, Jim. I’ve just discovered Americanos. There’s a sauna here, karaoke night…I had a butternut squash risotto for dinner last night. A butternut squash risotto, Jim! Went into the village, found a nice little restaurant, looked at the menu, and ordered myself a butternut squash risotto.”
“How was it?”
“All right. Should have had the chicken, but the point is that Icould. I’m not going back. So, this fight with Desmond. What was it about?”
Jim looked into the middle distance. “Old stuff.”
“What old stuff? You did a stretch, didn’t you? He the one who caught you?”
“No. Wouldn’t care if he did. That was his job. Cops and robbers, innit? Nah, this was about a debt he never paid.”
“What debt?” Carol was enjoying her new role of interrogator.
“I can’t be telling you that. That was business between me and him. It gets out and I’m dead too. You’re all right, I trust you, babes, but I can’t risk it.”
Huh. Carol sat there, pondering the situation. She knew Jimwouldn’t budge. No point trying. She’d have to find out the truth another way.
“I guess I’ll just have to ask you where you were when he died, then.”
“What time did he die then? I ain’t got a clue.”
“Three fifteen p.m.”
“Three fifteen p.m.” Jim searched his mind. “Oh. Easy. I’d have been in my place, watchingEscape to the Country.”
“Anyone who can verify that for you?”
“Sorry, love. It was a good one. Surrey couple, I think. Looking for a property in Scotland.”
“Did they buy anything?”
“Nope. They never fucking do.”
And with that, Jim got up and headed back toward the building, swinging his croquet mallet in his left hand.
Seventeen
Margaret and Catherinestared at Geoffrey. They were on the bistro patio, sharing a pot of tea. No one had been allowed to say anything for what felt like an age. The place was in its post-lunch lull, not many residents around. Margaret had managed to persuade a waiter to sell her an Eccles cake, even though the kitchen was closed. A playlist of generic jazz played so quietly as to be hardly noticeable.
“Are you trying to work out—”
Geoffrey held up his hand and scrunched his eyes. “Quiet, Margaret. Please. Sorry, I’m trying to think.”
“Twenty-seven hours,” whispered Catherine. “He’s trying to work out the time between Desmond licking Carol’s spoon and Desmond dying. It’s twenty-seven hours.”
Margaret nodded her understanding and they both continued to sit in silence until Geoffrey slammed the table with his hand in satisfaction.
“Twenty-seven hours!” he said. “That’s how long there wasbetween Desmond licking the spoon and Desmond dying. Twenty-seven hours.”
